← v6n2, Fall 2007
Poetry · Volume 6, Number 2

In Which I Imagine Myself Into a Western, Cahterine Pierce

Come. Take my hand,

rough from fields. Yonder

the sun sets, molten, unhinged.

I’ll drink whiskey with you.

I’ll sing you a murder ballad.

With me you put down

the gun, undo my petticoat.

The moon a noose behind us.